I'm a Lil' Mad At Cha

I’ve been listening to 2pac recently. His ties to the Death Row crew always made me hesitant to get into his albums, since I can only take so much of their G-Funk sounds and their violence-as-pornography philosophy. But I can’t deny his talent as a performer, especially his commanding delivery. Most MCs use a producer’s beats to accentuate the force or emotional sentiment of their raps, which is usually true for 2pac as well. But his style also has the effect of accentuating the power of his backing tracks, making an otherwise forgettable beat into something intensely rhythmic, almost tribal.

Add to this a reflective, sensitive side to provide some interesting internal conflicts and contradictions, not to mention a high-profile death—which, along with the shooting of rival Notorious B.I.G., ushered the end of a long reign of hardcore gangsta rap—and you have the makings of music legend.

I’m not surprised that he has such passionate fans and followers (though I’m a bigger fan of Biggie’s work), but I can’t help feeling that he also established a trend in rap superstars that’s less admirable: that of the narcissist thug.

He wasn’t the first, of course. Chuck D’s paranoid, insular rants likely set a significant precedent, and Ice Cube’s solo work is perhaps just as conflicted, just as polarizing, and just as self-righteous in its wounded ego stroking as 2pac’s albums. But 2pac was so huge in the mid 90’s, arguably a bigger star than Ice Cube ever was, and his legacy has now exploded into the realm of myth. He is considered a poet, a philosopher, a saint to contemplate and adore. His ego-centric navel gazing just seems much more powerful a symbol than any previous candidate.

I also realize that megalomania and martyr complexes are not unique to rap stars; from Elvis to Axl to Fred Durst, these poisonous traits have long been part of the rock world. A key difference to me, though (and perhaps I’m wrong on this) is that most idiots who rock out to G’n’R or Limp Bizkit don’t obsess over the personas of their favorite frontmen; they just like the catchy, aggressive music. This is quite different for rap stars: it almost seems as if the artists’ overblown regard for themselves is a large part of their appeal. Think about the big rap stars of the past 15 years: Jay-Z, DMX, Eminem, Kanye West, Lil’ Wayne. Each successive star seems as if they’re trying to outdo each other in their narcissism. Each of these artists frames the trials of their life as moments as grand and massive as Moby Dick.

What is the appeal? I realize that braggadocio has been an important component of hip hop culture since its very beginning, but this is an ugly mutation of that tradition. To me, it seems much closer to the cult leaders who command their devoted followers through the sheer force of their charisma and sense of grandiosity. Biggie over-romanticized violence as well, but at least he knew the merits of humor and self-deprecation. He comes off as charmingly human, while these other artists, talented though they may be, can’t help but seem like cartoons by comparison.

I like some of Kanye’s songs (and some of his antics are unintentional comedic gems), but I can’t sit through a whole album of his prima donna bullshit. Simply telling me that you’re God doesn’t make it so (though it seems that a large portion of the world begs to differ). And Eminem may just be the “Bob Dylan of Hip Hop” (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean), but he’s also a bitter, whiny asshole; an eternal victim who wants to tell you why it’s not his fault he’s an asshole. Some people may like an artist wanking all over them like that, but I like at least a little foreplay before I commit to that kind of relationship.

So while I tip my 40 to the memory of Mr. Shakur and his undeniable talents, I take the rest of that shit to my head, to drown out the cries of the shrill, privileged martyrs he’s unleashed upon the world.

FOLK YOU

I don’t like the term “folk music” as it is generally understood. It carries with it a pejorative connotation of primitiveness, of music for commoners.

Plus, its meaning after the 1960’s became frustratingly muddled. Is the eleven-minute, verbosely cryptic “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” really supposed to be lumped in with “Goodnight Irene” and “You Are My Sunshine?”

I don’t think any one type of music is intrinsically better, or even that different from any another. Why would it be? We’re all human, and music (like class) is a product of a particular culture. An anthropologist, then, might regard ALL music as a sort of folk music, with different tribes of fans representing their respective sounds. I don’t know any anthropologists to confirm that anyone thinks this way, but I like this conceptualization, and I’ll run with it for now.

I’ve been trying to come up with an informative, parsimonious way to classify human music across cultures and history; to sort out the different types of “folk” music around the world without using specific cultural or historical labels, or even of technique or sound.

Here’s what I have, and feel free to offer feedback or suggestions for change.
Music, to me, can be divided into three very general categories. These categories are defined and distinguished by the role the musical performer plays with respect to his or her audience. These are the categories as I see them:

Campfire Music: Songs of this type can be thought of as encouraging an egalitarian relationship with artist and audience. They are often simple, accessible, and great for group sing-a-longs (or play-alongs for instrumentals).

Shaman Music: The artist as Shaman wants to impress the audience, and to gain their devotion, so songs/performances of this type usually showcase a skill that average people do not have, be it for voice, dance, or command of an instrument. By extension, Shaman music also exhibits much more of the artist’s individual personality than does Campfire music. The more the dominant ego of the Shaman is felt, the more listeners can be swept into his or her cult of devotees.

Pure Music: Songs of this last type are written with the intent of impressing an audience, but also find the artist receding into the background, as if the music was a pure evocation of emotion, enlightenment, or divine glory, rather than the performance of a mere mortal. Pure Music is often reverential in spirit, either to God, or simply to a certain feeling. You might even say that the true audience for songs of this type is the revered Abstraction Itself.

So now that the categories have been established, which artists would go where? It actually depends on the song in question. Most of the Beatles’ songs, especially their early output, would be easily filed under Campfire music. They’re simple, accessible, catchy, and damn fun for everyday people to song along to. Most music typically called “folk” (pre-Dylan, at least) would be Campfire music, as would most dance music, and lots of contemporary pop. D.C. hardcore is a great example of Campfire music: a stylistically unified, egalitarian tribe of warriors distancing themselves from the perceived sins of their surrounding culture, and cementing their solidarity in a rush of communal aggression.

As for Shaman music, this covers most music superstars we know: Your Divas, your Bad Boys, your guitar heros, your charismatic leaders, your impeccable soloists, your masters of show biz. All of that stuff is a Shamanistic display of their power over you. Think Aretha Franklin’s voice, Mick Jagger’s outrageous machismo, Eddie Van Halen’s lightning fast fret work, Mingus’ crazy arrangements, KISS’s image and stage shows. Later Beatles songs grew ever more shamanistic, for example “I Am the Walrus” and “Helter Skelter.” This makes sense, because the opposing pull of everyone’s expanding egos eventually ripped apart the once-famous group unity of the Fab Four. If people tend to worship the artist as an icon, it’s probably fair to say that a role as Shaman has been established.

Finally, there’s Pure music. Some examples include medieval liturgical chants, as well as most Western compositional pieces that prefer emotional or spiritual resonance over impressive showcases of technical skill (think Mozart’s Requiem rather than the Magic Flute). My Bloody Valentine is a more recent example of artists upstaging themselves as performers in favor of obtaining a perfect representation of feeling. Sound collages like Revolution 9 and most of “Kid A” are examples of established Shamans trying out some Pure music.

This categorization is not perfect, I know. Performers like Odetta and Thom Yorke can take a simple, catchy Campfire song (e.g. “Muleskinner Blues” and “Karma Police,” respectively) and turn it into a stunning display of Shaman superiority. And nowadays, our media-saturated and celebrity-obsessed culture has led to the fervent Shamanization of people whose music is Campfire-level accessible, even in performance (e.g. Moby). But I think this “music as social tool” approach has something to it, and seems to explain music’s affect on its creator as well as its audience. It doesn’t require any tedious or messy exploration of music “genomes,” it just explains the dynamics of a tribe when engaging in musical activity. In times before manifest destiny, colonization, globalization and the internet, these tribes were much more consistent and clearly defined. Now, they can change from song to song, which to some probably seems to reflect a flawed conceptualization on my part. While that may be true, I contend that technology and changing culture merely impose superficial variations upon an ages-old human culture machine, and that all this waxing about what is New Wave or No Wave, Grime or Dubstep, sophisticated or primitive, cool or uncool, it’s all arbitrary in the grand scheme of things.

“It’s all folk music, anyway.” Lester Bangs made my point years ago.